


let's go

by Areiton



Series: The Trip Home Led to You [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre Derek Hale/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski - Freeform, Touch-Starved, Travel, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: “Sometimes,” Peter says, “running from your problems isn’t a bad idea.”Stiles hums thoughtfully, and leans back, studying them.“You should go,” he says, and Derek stares at him. “You should both go. Gods know, Beacon Hills has been hell for both of you.”





	let's go

It’s strange, how it happens.

Derek is reading, sprawled across the couch and Stiles is humming in the background. Ostensibly, he’s here for research, something Scott wanted him to look up. Peter has the best books, and refuses to let Stiles take them from the loft, something that frustrates the boy and amuses Derek, and Peter takes his amusement.

There’s a documentary on, and Derek keeps glancing at it, his gaze bright and fascinated in a way Peter hasn’t seen since before the fire, and it makes him ache, seeing that wonder.

Seeing burnt out shadows of the boy he’d known, a lifetime ago.

Derek glances at him once, his gaze searching and curious, but he doesn’t say anything, not until Stiles comes back and hands out bowls of spicy pasta, plopping down on the floor to eat his pasta while he stares at the tv.

“I wanna go there,” Stiles says, apropos nothing, and Derek snorts.

“You don’t even know where there _is,”_ he says, fondly and Peter hides his smile at Stiles indignant flailing.

It’s only after the sputtering stops and Stiles grumbles into his food that Peter says, “It’s Greenland. And you’d freeze.”

Both of them pause, staring at him, and Peter shrugs. “I went there, the year I spent abroad.”

The year after Paige, when he fled his hurt nephew, and the complicated feelings he felt guilty for. Derek eyes him now, understanding bright in his gaze.

“Sometimes,” Peter says, “running from your problems isn’t a bad idea.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully, and leans back, studying them.

“You should go,” he says, and Derek stares at him. “You should both go. Gods know, Beacon Hills has been hell for both of you.”

There’s a beat of quiet, and then, carefully, Peter says, “It has been for you, as well.”

Stiles makes a face, and stands, gathering up the empty bowls. “I’m not ready. But you are.”

 

~*~

 

Peter thinks about it.

He thinks about it for weeks, and sees Derek watching him.

They get along now—even when they fight in the preserve, it’s more playful than anything, and Peter limps away, hard and sore and desperate for Derek to pin him down and fill him up, instead of itching to rip his nephew’s throat out.

It’s progress.

But there’s still _something_ between them, something Laura shaped, with Kate’s voice and conjured of smoke.

But on the nights when he wakes with a scream trapped in his throat, he is never left alone in the dark. Derek always pads out and sits on the far side of the couch, and they watch the flickering images of a world beyond this thrice cursed town.

And he thinks about it.

 

~*~

 

“Would you go?” Derek asks, his voice rough and Peter’s hands are shaking.

The fight had been close tonight, too close. Stiles is in the hospital, and Derek is still bleeding.

There was a moment, when the glowing eyes had flickered and Peter had seen the sick white bone of his nephew’s spine through the gaping clawmarks in his back, and Derek’s scream still rattled around in his head, almost downing out the sound of flames.

But he hears the question, and he glances at the TV, where the goddamn documentary is panning over a span of northern Europe. Derek is watching him, though, his pale eyes pain dull and still demanding.

And he knows the answer, the light flippant one he should give—but Derek almost died, today, Stiles will be recovering for months, and he is so fucking _tired._

So he nods, once, and says, plain and honest.

“If you went with me, darling, there is no where I wouldn’t go.”

 

~*~

 

They see Stiles, once, before they leave. He’s sleeping and Peter presses a kiss into his hair and tucks a phone into his hand, the number already programmed into his and Derek’s phone.

Derek whines, almost too low to hear, when Peter turns to leave and he pauses. “He isn’t ready, Derek. Not yet.”

He doesn’t say, _but one day._

It’s not a guarantee—nothing is, in Beacon Hills.

But he goes, and Derek follows him, and he thinks— _but one day._

 

~*~

 

They go.

To Europe, soaring cathedrals and dark forests, hidden cafes, shitty hotels, opera and museums, and every small bakery Derek can coax Peter into.

To Africa, and run, shifted, through the plains, wander human through the cities, sleep under a wide open sky filled with a million stars and a bright bright moon.

To India, wet and beautiful, and Derek laughs there, at an elephant of all things, and Peter watches with unguarded wonder in his eyes.

They go to New Zealand and Austraila, trek across Russia and back into the shifting cultures of Europe, and they begin to talk.

Of the past and their regrets.

Of the family the lost. Sometimes—sometimes they fight, and it’s not playful sparring, it’s the vicious brawls that he remembers from right after he came back from the dead, when Derek reeked of fear and fury.

But he comes back. Always, they come back to each other.

 

~*~

 

Derek is shy, skittish almost, and the first time Peter touches him, steers him through a crowded street in Venice with a hand at the nape of his neck, Derek went almost boneless, a low noise of pleasure and want in his throat.

He pressed close, after that, cuddled into Peter while the wandered through Paris and Cairo and Moscow, curled around him when they slept in Delhi and Auckland and the Outback.

It was chaste, and madding, and Peter wanted, gods he _wanted_. But he needed pack, needed _family_ far more than he needed to fuck his nephew.

 

~*~

 

They text Stiles, constantly, and eventually John, because he was curious and protective, and amused.

“I miss him,” Derek says, while they watch the waves in South Africa.

“I wonder if he’s safe,” Peter says, feet dangling over a mountain ledge in Peru.

“He’d love this,” Derek whispers, a monkey perched on his shoulder in Brazil.

They miss him. But Stiles isn’t there yet—he hasn’t been through everything Derek and Peter had, even with the hell he had survived.

He isn’t ready to leave Beacon Hills,  isn’t ready to leave his brother or father.

But Peter thinks that he’s close.

That the day is not nearly as far off as Derek fears.

 

~*~

 

Derek kisses him in Greenland, while a snowstorm blows in, in the middle of an argument about their hotel for the night, just leans in and kisses the protest right out of Peter’s mouth, makes a happy pleased noise when Peter pulls him closer with a needy noise, and when he breaks away, whispers, “Just get in the fucking room so I can fuck you, Peter.”

Later, after Derek has fingered him open and Peter has ridden him agonizingly slow, until Derek was begging and they came, hard enough that Peter’s roar had shaken the light fixtures—

Later, when Derek licks Peter’s stomach clean and presses his finger into the come seeping from him, when Peter arches and groans and ruts against him lazily and gasps into Derek’s mouth as he fucks him with lazy fingers, dragging him to a toe curling orgasm that left Peter shivering and weak against Derek’s chest.

Derek whispers, “Peter?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I miss him,” he says, a soft confession and Peter closes his eyes. Presses a kiss into Derek’s salty skin.

“I do, too.”

 

~*~

 

He finds the house while Derek is talking about the story he started writing, rambling at his side in a way that he’s never done in Beacon Hills, and it occurs to him—they’re happy.

They are both blindingly, impossibly, happy.

The house is small and blue and rustic and quaint and Peter stops to stare at it, at the sign in Russian that he can’t read.

“Darling,” he says, and Derek pauses, gives him a questioning look. “I don’t want to go anymore.”

Derek stares at it, and  a smile starts at the corner of his lips.

“I miss him,” Peter says, plainly. “And I want somewhere to build our life. Somewhere he can come.”

Derek reaches for his hand, then, twists their fingers together.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. Let’s see who we need to talk to, huh?”

Peter kisses him, there, in a tiny town in the middle of god knows where Europe, surrounded by rolling green and an endless sky, kisses him and let’s himself soak in the feeling of being _home._

Derek’s arms, and the promise of something _more_ —that was home.

For all the times he ran searching, they ran looking for peace—this has always been home.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yes, sweetheart, let’s go.”

 


End file.
